The Red Knight

The column had tightened up.

‘How far?’ he asked Hob.

‘A league. Less. Not an hour’s walk.’ Hob shrugged. His hands were shaking.

‘Standard front, then. At my word – Walk!’ called the captain. He turned to his squire. ‘Whistle. Not the trumpet.’

Michael understood. He had a silver whistle around his neck. Carlus, the giant trumpeter and company armourer, shrugged and fell back.

The column shifted forward, into a walk, the horses suddenly eager, ears pricked forward and heads up. The chargers quivered with excitement – the lighter ronceys ridden by the archers caught the bug from the bigger horses. Along the column, the less able riders struggled to control their mounts.

Up a long hill they went, and then back down – to a burn running fast with the water of two days’ rain. Hob led them west into the trees.

Now that they were at the edge of the Wild, the captain had time to note that the trees were still nearly bare. Buds showed here and there, but the north country was not yet in spring, and snow lay in the lee of the larger rocks.

He could see a long way in these woods.

And that meant other things could see him, especially when he was resplendent in mirror-white armour, scarlet and gilt.

He led them on for another third of a league, the column snaking along behind him, two abreast, easily negotiating the sparse undergrowth. The trees were enormous, their branches thick and long, but stretching out high above even Bad Tom’s head.

But when an inner sense said that he was courting disaster – imagine that taloned monster in among this column before we were off our horses and ready – he raised his right fist to signal a halt and then spread his arms – always good exercise, in armour – and waved them downwards, once. Dismount.

He dismounted carefully, to Grendel’s disgust. Grendel liked a fight. Liked to feel the hot squirt of blood in his mouth.

Not this time, the captain thought, and patted his destrier’s shoulder.

Toby came and took his head.

‘Don’t go wandering off, young Toby,’ the captain said cheerfully. ‘All officers.’

Michael, already off his horse and collected, blew a whistle blast. Then handed the captain a short spear with a blade as long as a grown man’s arm at one end and a sharp spike at the other.

Jehannes and Hugo and Milus walked up, their armour almost silent.

‘Gelfred has the beast under observation. Less than a league away. I want a spread line, heavy on the wings, light in the loins, and every man-at-arms with an archer tight to his back.’ The captain glanced about.

‘The usual, then,’ said Jehannes. His tone suggested that the captain should have said as much.

‘The usual. Fill the thing full of arrows and get this done.’ This was not the right moment to spar with Jehannes, who was his best officer, and disapproved of him nonetheless. He looked around for inspiration.

‘Thick woods,’ Jehannes said. ‘Not good for the archers.’

The captain raised his hand. ‘Don’t forget that Gelfred and two of our huntsmen are out there,’ he said. ‘Don’t let’s shoot them full of arrows, too.’

The rear two-thirds of the column came forward in an orderly mob and rolled out to the north and south, forming a rough crescent two hundred ells long, in three rough ranks – knights in the front rank, squires in the middle, both men covering an archer to the rear. Some of the archers carried six-foot bows of a single stave, and some carried heavy crossbows, and a few carried eastern horn bows.

The captain looked at his skirmish line and nodded. His men really were good. He could see Sauce, off to the north, and Bad Tom beyond her. What else could they do? Be outlaws? He gave them purpose.

I like them, he thought. All of them. Even Shortnose and Wilful Murder.

He grinned, and wondered who he would be, if he had not found this.

‘Let’s get this done,’ he said aloud. Michael blew two sharp blasts, and they were moving.

He’d counted two hundred paces when Gelfred appeared off to his left. He waved both arms, and the captain lifted a fist, and the line shuffled to a halt. A single shaft, released by a nervous archer, rattled through the underbrush and missed the huntsman by an ell. Gelfred glared.

Milus spat. ‘Get his name,’ he growled. ‘Fucking new fuck.’

Gelfred ran to the captain. ‘It’s big,’ he said. ‘But not, I think, our quarry. It is – I don’t know how to describe it. It’s different. It’s bigger.’ He shrugged. ‘I may be wrong.’

The captain weighed this. Looked into the endless trees. Stands of evergreen and alder stood denser than the big, older oaks and ashes.

He could feel it. It knew they were there.

‘It’s going to charge us,’ the captain said. He spoke as flatly as he could, so as not to panic his men. ‘Stand ready,’ he called. To hell with silence.

Behind him, Michael’s breathing grew louder.

Gelfred spanned his crossbow. He wasn’t wearing armour. Once he had a bolt on the stock, he stepped into line behind Michael.

The captain reached up and lowered his visor, and it fell across his face with a loud snap.

And then his vision was narrowed to the two long slits in his faceplate, and the tiny breathing holes that also gave him his only warning of any motion coming from below. His own breath came back into his mouth, warmer than the air. The inside of the helmet was close, and he could taste his own fear.

Through the slits, the woods went on and on, although they seemed darker and stiller than before.

Even the breeze had died.

Silence.

No bird song.

No insect noise.

Michael’s breathing inside his dog-faced Thuruvian helmet sounded like the bellows in a forge running full-out at a fair. His first time, the captain thought to himself.

The line was shuffling a little. Men changed their stances – the veterans all had heavy spears, or pole-axes, and they shifted their weight uneasily. The crossbowmen tried to aim. The longbowmen waited for a target before they drew. No man could hold a hundred-pound weight bow for long at the full draw.

The captain could feel their fear. He was sweating into his armingcote. When he shifted, cold air came in under his arms and his groin, but the hot sweat ran down his back. His hands were cold.

And he could feel the tension from his adversary.

Does it have nerves too? Fear? Does it think?

No birds sang.

Nothing moved.

The captain wondered if anyone was breathing.

‘Wyvern!’ shouted Bad Tom.

It exploded from the trees in front of the captain – taller than a war horse, the long, narrow head full of back- curved teeth, scales so dark that they appeared black, so polished they seemed to be oiled.

It was fast. The damned things always were.

Its wave of terror was a palpable thing, expanding like a soap bubble around it – the full impact of it struck the captain and washed over him to freeze Michael where he stood.

Gelfred raised his crossbow and shot.

His bolt hit something and the creature opened its maw and screeched until the woods and their ears alike rang with its anger.

The captain had time to take his guard, spear high, hands crossed, weight back on his right hip. His hands were shaking, and the heavy spearhead seemed to vibrate like a living thing.

It was coming right for him.